Читать книгу Man of Fortune - Rochelle Alers, Rochelle Alers - Страница 9

It was six-thirty when Tamara took the elevator up to the surgical floor. She was tired but not a weary-to-the-bone fatigue. Maybe it was because she hadn’t lost a patient. She wanted to return the keys to the anesthesiologist who’d let her use his apartment the afternoon before. She found him at the nurses’ station with her supervisor, Brian Killeen.

Dr. Justin Luna smiled as she approached. “Have you recovered from yesterday’s ordeal?”

Tamara returned his open, friendly smile. Justin Luna had become the hospital’s rock star. Tall, dark, handsome and brilliant, he had successfully thwarted the advances of every woman at the hospital since he’d joined the medical staff the year before. What they didn’t know was that Justin was engaged to marry an internist in his native Mexico City.

She handed him the keys to his co-op. “There was someone else with me in the elevator, so that kept me relatively calm.”

Tamara nodded to her supervisor. His buzz-cut steel-gray hair was a match for his cold eyes. She’d managed to keep her distance from the tyrannical head of emergency services because a confrontation with him would signal the end of her career at the hospital. The first time he’d gotten in her face about the care of a patient was the only time. She’d handed in her resignation letter after applying for a position as an E.R. doctor at Beth Israel Medical Center and Lenox Hill Hospital. However, the chief of staff had intervened, forcing Tamara to reconsider her hasty decision. Two years had passed since that incident, and Doctors Killeen and Wolcott had kept a respectable distance and were overly polite with each other to the point of ridiculousness.

Brian Killeen’s impassive expression didn’t change with Tamara’s greeting. “Dr. Luna, please excuse me for a moment. I’d like to have a few words with Dr. Wolcott.” Cupping her elbow, he led Tamara away from the nurses’ station.

She affected the same expression. “Yes, Dr. Killeen?”

He dropped his hand. “I wanted to tell you that I’ve approved your vacation request. I know you wanted it to begin Monday, but if you want to begin today, then you have my approval. I also wanted to tell you that a directive has come down from the corporation that we must cut back on overtime. Effective September first, we will no longer have twelve-hour shifts. We’re now mandated to eight-hour shifts.”

Tamara blinked once in an attempt to process what she’d just heard. The E.R. was the most under-staffed department in the hospital. With the faltering economy and loss of jobs, those who were no longer employed were left without health care, which tended to burden hospital emergency rooms with an increase in indigent patients.

“But that’s going to put our patients at risk,” she argued softly.

Brian stared at Dr. Tamara Wolcott. He may have come down hard on her, but he would be the first to admit that she was an excellent doctor. She’d never been one to complain. He’d found her to be one of the most dedicated doctors in the E.R.

“We’re going to use residents and interns to pick up the slack. And I want you to think about becoming my assistant. You don’t have to give me an answer until after you return from vacation.”

The request shocked Tamara. She and Brian had never actually gotten along because of his bullying.

“Assist you how, Dr. Killeen?”

“I want you to supervise the interns.”

“The only thing I’ll say is that I’ll think about it.”

Thick black eyebrows lowered over his icy orbs. “What’s there to think about, Tamara? Perhaps next year you’ll become Head of Emergency Medicine.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What aren’t you telling me?” she whispered.

A rare smile softened the hard line of his mouth. “The only thing I’m going to say is that you should think about my offer.” The smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “Because you’re dressed in street clothes I assume you’ve completed your shift.”

“I have.”

“Then go home, Dr. Wolcott, I don’t want to see you in this hospital for a month.”

Stunned and shocked, Tamara blinked as if coming out of a trance. Not only had Brian called her Tamara for the first time and approved her four-week vacation request, but he’d also recommended her for a supervisory position. Although she was not suspicious by nature, she knew Dr. Brian Killeen hadn’t told her everything. Perhaps, she mused, he’d been promised a position at another hospital. And if he had, then it was most likely Chief of Staff. There was no way Dr. Blowhard, as the E.R. staff called him out of earshot, would accept anything less than chief.

“I’ll see you in a month.” She was going to take him up on the offer to begin her vacation now. It’d been more than a year since she’d taken a day off for personal leave. Half the summer was over and Tamara planned to take advantage of the warm weather to do all of the things she’d put off doing.

Tamara turned on her heel and headed for the elevator that would take her to the lobby where Rodney had promised to wait for her. She found him leaning against the information desk talking to a volunteer. He straightened and followed her out into the early-morning sun.

Reaching for Tamara’s hand, Rodney pulled her along as he whistled sharply through his teeth for a taxi that had just pulled up to the curb in front of the hospital. Opening the rear door, he waited for her to get in before he slid in beside her.

“East Seventh between Second and Third avenues,” she said to the driver as he started the meter.”

Rodney, wearing a baseball cap to protect his hair and face from the sun, placed a knapsack between his feet, then turned to stare at Tamara. “Have you ever walked from the hospital to your place?”

Tamara, who’d closed her eyes, nodded. “I’ve done it a few times. Most times I’m too exhausted to do anything but collapse when I get home.”

“I don’t know how you do it, Wolcott.”

She opened her eyes, staring at his face. It was the color of a toasted pecan. Tamara had known Rodney Fox for more than three years, yet this was the first time she actually looked closely at him, finding him quite nice on the eyes. His face was angular and on the thin side, but his features were delicately balanced. She’d told him that he wasn’t her type, but then again he could’ve been her type if she hadn’t put up a barrier to keep all men at a distance.

It had taken being trapped in an elevator with Duncan Gilmore for her to realize not all men were like Edward Bennett. Rodney’s love life was like a soap opera—there was always drama before he and his girlfriend reconciled. What Tamara found odd was that Rodney had moved out of his own apartment, and she wondered if this break was final.

“Do what, Fox?”

“Work around the clock without falling on your face.”

“You did it when you were on call.”

“I know,” Rodney said, “but that’s when I was a resident. But as an E.R. physician you never catch a break.”

Tamara smiled. “Give me a twenty-minute nap and I’m raring to go again. Working the E.R. is like a rush. I always find myself swept up in the chaos whenever a new patient is brought in.”

“I can think of other things that give me a rush. Like sex,” he added quickly when Tamara gave him a curious look.

She wanted to tell Rodney she didn’t know about that, because it’d been a long time since she’d had sex. The last man she’d slept with was her husband, and at thirty-six years her senior, his sex drive wasn’t what it had been. This suited Tamara because it left more time for her to concentrate on her studies. Weeks would go by before they made love, and when they did she found it satisfying and also gratifying.

“You need more than sex,” she countered.

“Without sex and babies the world wouldn’t need pediatricians.”

“You’re right about that. You can put us out in the middle of the block,” Tamara said to the cabbie, raising her voice to be heard through the Plexiglas partition.

Reaching into the pocket of his jeans, Rodney took out a bill and pushed it through the slot. “Keep the change.” He opened the door, got out and helped Tamara. “I’m serious when I say that I’ll pay half your rent.”

Tamara stood on the sidewalk outside her apartment building staring up at Dr. Rodney Fox. “What about your co-op?”

“I’m putting it on the market. I told Isis she can live there until I find a buyer.”

“That may take a while, given the real-estate market.”

“True. But I’m not going to put her out on the street.”

Unlike what Edward did to me, Tamara mused. Rodney deserved more than a woman who used him like a yo-yo. Unfortunately, Isis hadn’t realized what she had. Hopefully she would come to her senses before it was too late.

“Come on, let’s go upstairs. Let me warn you that you’ll get your share of exercise walking up and down five flights. Most of the tenants are thirty-and fortysomething professional couples, which means you’ll be able to sleep during the day. It is usually louder on the weekends, but it’s never gotten so out of hand that the police have to get involved. The inner door is locked at all times, and thankfully there is a working intercom.”

She unlocked the outer door, and walked into a vestibule with a number of mailboxes and an intercom system. “I’m in apartment 5F, which means I overlook the front of the building. The building superintendent is in 1F. His wife is our security,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper. “She sees everyone coming and going. Don’t be surprised if she asks you what you’re doing in the building.”

Rodney smiled. “What do you want me to tell her?”

“You can say you’re my cousin.”

He angled his head. “We look nothing alike.”

Opening her mailbox, Tamara removed a magazine and several pieces of junk mail. “Okay, Fox. We can be play cousins.”

“Ain’t that just like black folk?” he teased. “I think we’re the only race with an abundance of play cousins.”

Tamara laughed as she closed and locked the mailbox. “You’re right about that.”

Rodney followed her up the first flight of stairs. The smell of disinfectant lingered in the air. “The building is spotless.”

“That’s because Mr. Clifford sweeps the halls every day and mops every other day,” she said over her shoulder. “There’s a door at the end of the hall on the first floor that leads outside where you can put garbage. All garbage must be in plastic bags, or we’ll have to pay a fifty-dollar fine for the first infraction. It escalates with each infraction. I’m thankful we don’t have the dreaded New York City curse of roaches or rodents, and most tenants want to keep it that way.”

“That sounds good to me.”

Tamara reached the fifth floor and turned left down the tiled hallway. It had taken a month for her to get used to walking up the stairs. Not only was the exercise good for cardiovascular conditioning, but she’d also lost weight while toning her lower body.

She’d joined a local health club, but rarely worked out because she never seemed to find the time. However, with a month’s vacation, she planned to visit the club several times each week.

Tamara remembered she’d told Duncan Gilmore that she had little or no time for socializing. But that was not the case now. She had a month—four weeks—to do whatever she wanted to do for herself. She planned to wait a few days, then call to tell him when they could get together for dinner.

She unlocked the door to her apartment and slipped out of her shoes. “Shoes worn at the hospital are left on what I call the quarantine mat.” Tamara pointed to the mat under a table in the entryway. She opened a closet and took out a pair of flip-flops. “You can wear these.” Rodney took off his cap and placed it on the table next to a bonsai plant. She gave him a pointed look. “You can always walk around in your bare feet, Fox.”

Dropping his knapsack, Rodney slipped out of his running shoes, sat down on a straight-back chair with a seat made of rush and slipped on the rubber thongs. He stood up, towering over Tamara by a full head. “What are the house rules?”

Smiling, she stared at the shock of flyaway red curls falling over his forehead. “What makes you think there are any rules?”

His reddish eyebrows flickered. “You’ve already apprised me about the shoes and the garbage, so there have to be other rules.”

“The only rule is that I’m not going to pick up after you. If you mess it up, then you clean it up. And you’re toast if you touch or attempt to water my plants.”

“That’s easy,” Rodney crooned.

“We will see,” Tamara retorted.

Duncan lay on a cushioned chaise on the terrace outside his bedroom, bare feet crossed at the ankles. He’d taken a mental-health day.

The night before he and Kyle had gone over to Ivan’s house after they’d closed their offices. They’d ordered takeout while watching the baseball game. He and Ivan had overruled Kyle, who didn’t want to watch the Mets playing on the west coast, but after downing a few beers it didn’t matter who was playing or on which coast. It was after three in the morning when he and Kyle had got into a taxi to return to their respective homes. The game had gone into extra innings.

Within minutes of walking into his bedroom, Duncan fell across the bed and went to sleep. When he woke the sun was up, and he’d called Mia Humphrey to tell her he wasn’t coming in.

He wasn’t hung over, but it felt good to lie around and do absolutely nothing. There were times when he felt guilty because Viola Gilmore had practically browbeat him by telling him he would amount to nothing if he didn’t take advantage of every minute of the day. His aunt took him on what she’d called a field trip to several blighted neighborhoods to show him burned-out and boarded-up buildings, vagrants and drug addicts standing around aimlessly and men and women who carried all of their possessions with them and slept in doorways because they didn’t have a place to call home. Viola equated laziness with failure, and even at fourteen, Duncan knew he didn’t want to become a failure.

The ring of the telephone disturbed the quiet. Reaching over, he picked up the cordless without looking at the display. “Hello.”

“Hel-lo.”

He listened for the woman on the other end of the line to say something. “I think you have the wrong number,” he said after the seconds ticked off.

“Is this Duncan Gilmore?”

Duncan sat up straighter, trying to remember where he’d heard her voice. “Yes, it is. Who’s calling?”

“Hold up, playa. Don’t you recognize my voice?”

“Tamara? Is that you?”

“Yes, it’s Tamara. I…I didn’t expect you to be home at this time.”

“Is that why you called now? Because you were trying to avoid talking to me?”

A soft gasp came through the earpiece. “If I didn’t want to talk to you, Duncan Gilmore, I never would’ve called. In fact, I would’ve thrown away your business card.”

“But you didn’t, and I’m glad you didn’t.”

“Why, Duncan?”

“Because I want to talk to you.”

There came a pause. “What do you want to talk about?” Tamara asked.

“When are you available to have dinner with me?”

“I’m open, Duncan. Any day, any time.”

A frown formed between his eyes. “Did you lose your job?”

“No,” she said, laughing. “I’m on vacation.”

He smiled. “If that’s the case, then what are you doing tomorrow?”

There came another pause before Tamara said, “I have to check my calendar.”

“I thought you said any time, any day.”

“I did, Duncan. I was just teasing you.”

“So,” he crooned, “the doctor does have a sense of humor.”

“Only when she’s not working,” Tamara retorted.

“How long are you on vacation, Tamara?”

“Four weeks.”

Duncan whistled. “I suppose that’s enough time for me to make you laugh.”

“Hold up, numbers man. Don’t get ahead of yourself. I only agreed to one date.”

It was Duncan’s turn to pause. “You’re right. Forgive me for being presumptuous.”

“You’re forgiven, Duncan.”

“Thank you. I have to make a reservation, then I’ll call you back.”

“Where are we going?”

“Sailing.”

“Sailing?” Tamara repeated.

“Yes. I’d like to take you on a dinner cruise along the Hudson River. I can see the ship from where I’m sitting. We can eat, listen to music and, if you want, dance or just take in the view.”

There came a beat. “That sounds wonderful.”

“It should be fun. Give me your number and I’ll call you back.” Tamara recited her number, he repeated it to her. “Hang up, Tamara.”

It took Duncan less than ten minutes to book a reservation. A satisfied smile softened his features when he dialed her number. She answered after the first ring. “I’ll pick you up at six-thirty.”

“What time do we board?” Tamara asked.

“Boarding is at seven-thirty and the cruise is from eight-thirty to eleven-thirty.”

“What if I meet you at the pier instead of you coming down to get me?”

“No. I want to pick you up, Tamara.”

“How will you get here?”

“I’ll take a taxi.”

“Don’t. I’ll take a taxi to you. Please give me your address.”

Duncan knew insisting traveling downtown to pick up Tamara, only to have to return to Chelsea and walk three blocks to the pier would result in a verbal exchange, something he sought to avoid. He’d managed to make it through adolescence without a physical altercation because his mother and aunt preached constantly that it was better to walk away than confront.

He gave Tamara his address. “I’ll be downstairs waiting for you.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Duncan repeated, before ending the call.

He was going to share with Tamara Wolcott something he hadn’t with Kalinda because she was prone to seasickness. Physically, Tamara was as different from his late fiancée as night was from day, but both possessed a quality he found hard to resist—the rare combination of brains and beauty.

Tamara sat at the breakfast bar in the kitchen pondering her decision after she’d hung up the phone with Duncan Gilmore. It had been four days since she’d found herself trapped in an elevator with the most delicious-looking man she’d seen in years. The only man who’d come close to Duncan was a boy in her high-school graduating class. His good looks had proved advantageous when he was picked by a modeling agency to be the poster boy for a men’s cologne. His was the face of the nineties until drugs ravaged his looks and his career.

Although she’d never been turned on by a man’s looks, Tamara found Duncan the exception. She’d considered the possibility that he was gay since he was single and hadn’t fathered any children, then she chided herself for being biased and narrow-minded. If a woman chose not to marry or have children that did not necessarily make her a lesbian. When, she asked herself, had she become her mother? Moselle Wolcott was the most critical and opinionated woman on the planet, and Tamara feared she was no different when it came to Duncan Gilmore.

Resting her bare feet on the other tall high-back chair, she reached for the pen and pad and began making a list of things she had to do before her date. A trip to the hair salon was the first order of business, followed by shopping for an outfit suitable for a dinner cruise. It had been much too long since she’d had a date.

She’d dated a few men she’d met at several conferences, and she’d shared drinks with some of her male colleagues after her divorce, but she didn’t count the latter as actual dates. They usually took place in a group after a particularly stressful shift. Otherwise she’d go over to a local restaurant or bar for late-night dinner, or, if it was the weekend, brunch.

Anytime she found a man getting too close she usually gave some signal that stopped them in their tracks. Duncan was geting too close, but was helpless to repel or discourage him. Perhaps it had something to do with them being trapped together, and not knowing when they’d be freed. Tamara also had told him things about herself that she hadn’t revealed to her ex-husband because she thought she would never see or speak to Duncan Gilmore again. Oh, was she wrong. Not only had she spoken to him but she’d consented to see him again.

Tamara saw movement out of the corner of her eye and turned to find Rodney standing at the entrance to the kitchen. His damp hair was pasted against his scalp. He’d showered but hadn’t shaved. The stubble of his beard was reddish blond. Rodney had moved in Tuesday morning and she’d only caught glimpses of him either when he came in early in the morning or left for his night shift.

She had turned her spare bedroom into a den with a sofa that converted into a queen-size bed. The walls were lined with bookcases, a flat-screen television with a home theater audio system, a mini fridge and a bar. It was a space where she went to relax and entertain. Whenever her parents came into Manhattan to see a Broadway show they had usually stayed overnight at a hotel until Tamara invited them to stay with her. The first time Moselle walked into the two-bedroom apartment she was at a loss for words because the space looked as if it’d been decorated for a design magazine.

Although Tamara spent more time at the hospital than she did at home, the apartment had become her sanctuary—a place where she was able to escape the stress that came with working as an E.R. doctor. She didn’t own the apartment, but it was hers and hers alone. She invited who she wanted to her home and if she wanted solitude then she had the option of ignoring her phone or pager.

Smiling, she lowered her feet. “Good morning.”

Running his hand over his flat belly under a black tank top, Rodney walked slowly into the kitchen and flopped down on the chair. He glanced up and stared at Tamara. “Is it?”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Rough night?” she asked.

Rodney covered his face with his hands. “I wish. I had a fight with Isis.”

“I thought you broke up with her.”

Lowering his hands, his tortured gaze fused with Tamara’s. “She waited around for my shift to ask me if I’d mind if she brought a man back to the co-op.”

“Isis is just jerking your chain, Rodney, because she knows she can get a reaction from you.”

“It’s over, Tamara. I gave her exactly one month to find a place to live, then I’m changing the locks.”

Tamara didn’t recognize the Rodney Fox sitting in her kitchen. His expression was cold and empty. She liked the normally affable doctor—a lot. He loved his patients, and they in turn loved him back. The first time she had worked with Dr. Fox was when a young boy was brought into the E.R. with a broken leg from a hit-and-run. Although the eight-year-old was in excruciating pain, Rodney had managed to make him smile. At that moment she realized he would make an incredible father.

Pushing back from the center island, she stood and went over to the sink. “Would you like coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

“How do you drink it?”

“Black and strong.”

Tamara reached for a cup and coffee disk, inserting it into the well of the coffeemaker. The smell of brewing coffee wafted in the space. “How about some breakfast, Fox?”

“Hanging out with you has its advantages. Perhaps I should’ve hit on you instead of Isis.”

The brewing cycle completed, Tamara took the cup, placed it on a saucer and carried it to the table. “I don’t think so,” she drawled.

“Is it because I’m not your type?”

She patted his back. Baggy scrubs and street clothes had concealed Rodney Fox’s lean, hard body. “I learned a long time ago not to mix business and pleasure. The results can be devastating.”

Rodney took a sip of his coffee, peering at Tamara over the rim of the cup. “Are you speaking from experience?”

“Yes. I vowed not to get involved with anyone I have to work with.”

“You know you’ve become an object of fascination at the hospital.”

Tamara froze. “What are you talking about?” She knew she sounded defensive, but didn’t care. She detested office gossip.